Snippets of the Apocalypse
by BassThePony
Summary: Several one-shots detailing how different individuals deal with the fall of man. Rated T for safety. Strays from cannon.
1. Administrative Error

[A/N]: This is going to be a collection of stories regarding different views during the initial days of the apocalypse. Each one-shot will come with a short description of the circumstances.

- The CDC falls earlier due to a simple error. The scientists inside make their decisions.

* * *

Deep underneath the Center for Disease Control's headquarters in Atlanta, a single person sat in an office, listening to a voice on a radio.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Jenner, I truly am. But the... Infected... Are growing too large in numbers. My men and I have been ordered to remove ourselves to go reinforce Cheyenne Mountain.", the voice said, pausing at the word infected, as if it hurt to say.

There was a pause; The room was silent as the occupant lowered his head, staring at the wooden desktop in front if him in despair.

"I truly am sorry. I wish things were different, like they used to be.", the voice finally said, before the radio cut out, leaving the doctor to his thoughts.

Jenner sat in his chair and turned to look out over the control room, watching a group of researchers recording messages at their workstations. For whom? Jenner couldn't hazard a guess. They were cut off from any way to speak to their families. Maybe it was the thought that made the do it. Maybe it was a message to whatever deity they believed in. It didn't really matter anymore. Not to him, anyway.

He imagined scenes similar to that of the control room were happening throughout the bunker at that very moment. He knew from watching the security cameras that a large majority of personnel were simply sitting in their rooms. Crying. Drinking. Doing anything but work.

Work. A funny word to Jenner now. It elicited a bitter chuckle from him as he raised his head to look at the smiling picture of his wife. Her serene smile had helped him through many long nights of work. Trying to stop some disease or the other; Trying to sustain mankind for just a little longer. It all seemed rather pointless now, as he sat in his office waiting for the end. Alone.

He could remember sitting in the quarantine lab with her, hearing he rasping voice as the virus overtook her. Hearing her beg for him to continue, to be the savior mankind needed in it's darkest hour. But he couldn't, as it would turn out. All those hours of working with the samples, the many times he had to push himself to even approach the labs she had died in; Useless.

A simple error in numbers had been the cause.

As the dead rose and the government panicked, the scientists had descended into the bunker and sealed the entrances to only discover a fatal error just too late.

Energy.

Such an important issue in the past proved just as important in the end as well. As it appeared, a misplace number had resulted in the CDC being delivered only a marginal amount of oil to run the generators. Just the thought made Jenner laugh bitterly as he opened a drawer to take a swig of the flask held within, his other hand putting the picture frame on his desk face-down.

What kind of fool, he thought to himself, makes such an important facility run off the only fuel source they knew would run out so quickly? What fool would pass up nuclear, geothermal, even solar energy in favor of such a finite resource? A lousy one, he decided on. Standing up again to lean against the glass window overlooking the control room.

Just like him, he thought, smirking at the thought.

Even with all the work he put in, even with all the samples, all he had been able to deduce from the all he had done was one simple, damnable fact.

Everyone was infected. Everyone would turn.

The very thought was incredible, was terrifying. No disease in history had ever spread so quickly and so devastatingly as to overwhelm the world so fast. It was almost impossible to believe to anyone but those who spent their lives working to prevent it.

Ah, but it didn't matter now, did it? As Jenner looked out over the workstations, he saw all the people below finally turning to look at the countdown timer on the main screen; Watching their time tick away in a cold, calculating display of human efficiency in all things deadly.

One minute read the timer; One minute to the end.

Jenner knew what would happen when the timer ran out; They all knew. The cold, scientific part of his disease-infected brain brought the facts forward.

Twelve separate fuel-air explosives throughout the bunker and the structure above would detonate, using oxygen, ironically the source of life for all things, as a combustion agent to destroy all that it touched, including all life inside and surrounding the CDC.

Knowing this, the Army group assigned to protect them from danger had been ordered away, and now the scientists were left to their own devices, to ready themselves for death.

Not all had decided to stay, though.

Several had tried to leave through the shuttered doors and windows of the upper levels. None had made it past the dead and decaying remains of the people they had previously sworn to protect against that which they could not themselves.

Jenner checked the clock again. Ten seconds.

He had made his peace long ago, at the bedside of his freshly deceased wife, whom he had been married to for twenty years. A short time in retrospect.

As the clock ticked down he shared the sentiments of the remaining scientists.

They hadn't had a chance in the end. Not a snowball's chance in hell.

_Three..._

_Two... _

_One..._

As the timer finally reached zero, Jenner closed his eyes for the last time, and embraced the fire.


	2. We All Fall Down

[A/N]: In the aftermath of his wife's death, Captain Mike Whyte of the former US Army holds a vigil on the roof of his shelter, trying to work up the courage to do the unbearable.

* * *

Here he was again.

Rifle oiled up, round in the chamber...

And him, the hard-ass former commander of a sniper unit, crying like a newborn child.

As was the usual for the last year of his life, he was laying on the edge of the hospital's roof, his scope aimed squarely over one shambling individual in a crowd of lost souls.

After another heavy sob, Captain Whyte pulls away, rolling around and dropping his rifle beside him as he stares at the clouds, trying to stop shaking.

Suddenly, a silly little song comes to mind, and he almost chokes out a laugh as he recites it, slowly yet as surely as the sun in the sky, beating down on him.

"Count down from ten, then squawk like a hen, because we all fall down, all around."

Such a silly way to say goodnight, in retrospect. He remembered many a night sitting on the side of his young daughters bed, reciting the lines.

"Ten."

He would start there, looking at his giggling daughters face, her blue eyes sparkling in the light of the small lamp she slept by.

"Nine."

His wife would stand in the doorway, watching with that omnipresent smile on her face, complementing her long ebony hair and pale, yet soft and appealing skin.

"Eight."

No, that wasn't true. She wasn't always so happy. She knew she married a man in the army, but she could never hide the frown; Never hide the stinging fear she had when he would be called on to serve; To leave his fledging mark on the world behind to bring death on others.

"Seven."

Such matters seemed trivial to him now, high on his perch in the remains of Atlanta. He could remember the first days and weeks as clearly as if they happened only moments before.

"Six."

He was called in on a Friday. He could remember the looks of panic on people's faces, the warning he gave to his wife to flee, to go to her mother's. But she wouldn't listen, and he had no time to argue. He left with no more fuss, pausing to give a quick peck on the lips and cheeks of his wife and daughter. In retrospect, he should have done more. He should have protected them.

"Five."

He wound up stationed at the hospital, his hopes for a quick resolution died with the shot that brought down the first walker to assault the soldiers at the gates. In the end, he proved to be useless.

"Four."

It's been a year now. He's moved the bodies, he's set up a supply stash, and now all he has left is to wait.

"Three."

Christine came earlier, her ebony locks following her to the ground, her empty eyes now closed for good, with a small hole in the center of her forehead leaving an ugly blot on her otherwise unaffected face. She still seemed angelic to him.

"Two."

That was a day ago. The sun is now beginning to settle in the sky, and he knows he must end it soon, one way or another. Whyte pushes himself back up and levels his rifle again, a new onslaught of tears trying to come forth. He won't let them.

"One."

He settles the crosshairs on her forehead. The short hair she always loved slightly covers her eyes. She'd always been daddy's little girl, shy and timid. That facade, that sense that all is well, is shattered as her hair shifts, and the gaping hole in her face is revealed, muscles and sinew hanging off her cheek. And with that soul-shattering sight in hand, he finds the strength to do it, to bring an end to the beauty he helped bring into the world.

"Squawk."

The gunshot shatters the still air, sending it's payload whirling through the air, to it's eventual resting place in the little girl's head, sending her to the ground, right next to her mother.

Whyte finally drops his rifle, hearing it clatter to the ground below as he drops his head over the edge, letting his tears drop to the ground below, disturbing the dust that had sat there undisturbed for months now.

After what could have been milennia for all that Whyte's broken mind and spirit could know, his hand began to move.

Sliding along his side down to his holster, it flipped open the leather clasp, before grabbing the rough grip of his pistol and pulling it out. He rolled and stared at the clouds once more, moving his hands in an almost religious movement to pull back the well-oiled slide. A satisfying click greeted his ears as he held the gun to his chest.

And for some reason, he decided to do it one last time. Perhaps as a eulogy; For which of those who would be dead by the end of the day, he didn't know.

"Count down from ten, then squawk like a hen."

He closed his eyes and let out a sob.

"Ten."

His childhood flashed by, a blur of bullying and abuse.

"Nine."

Next came his years in high school, where he was approached by the grizzled recruiter. He hoped the old man died well.

"Eight."

His years in basic training passed by, a blur of pain and trials.

"Seven."

Then she came, introduced by a friend, but seemingly sent by God just for him.

"Six."

Their courtship was short and simple, a testament to their character.

"Five."

Their marriage was beautiful, attended by family and friends.

"Four."

His first deployment came. He remembered coming home and crying first with sadness, but then joy as he heard the baby inside her kick for the first time.

"Three."

She was born on a cloudy day. Like an ignored omen.

"Two."

The years as she grew up faded from view as they passed by, his final image being of him watching them as he was driven away in the Army truck. The last time he saw them alive.

"One. We all fall down."

He raised the pistol to his head and let it all go.

Only the dead would hear the pistol's squawk.


	3. Lifeless As The Moon

[A/N]: Whoa guys, slow down on the reviews! I can only handle so much! /sarcasm

(:P)

The music for this is 'Post-Apocalyptic Music' by 'SplinteredX'.

* * *

Outside the radioactive remains of what was once a great American city, the former President of the United States reflects.

* * *

The field was barren of life, barren of hope.

He didn't know why they had returned. Some sense of remorse for what they'd done? For some pitiful attempt at an apology.

They all knew they could never expect to get one. The dead never speak.

Even now, the craters and bodies lay silent, a testament to a species' capability for ruthlessness in the face of danger.

It was pointless; The entire venture.

the radiation left over from the blasts left only minutes to stand at the surface and marvel at the destruction brought on by human hands. Nowhere in the universe, he was willing to bet, was any species, big or small, that could inflict such pain and suffering on it's own.

No, such a cruel talent would be humanity's alone.

But there was hope; Hope for a better future.

Along the former East coast, he was told there was an area untouched by the warheads and radiation that had so devastated the rest of the continent; A land ravaged by Wildfire, but beginning to grow once more.

Such struggle was found in all species, but displayed most profoundly by the Human race. It's penchant for war had brought it's downfall, and it's talent for surviving had given it new life.

Regardless, the Old Word would be of little use to those that survived the horrors of the apocalypse. Trapped by the radiation encompassing the rest of North America, and by their lack of will, those who had sought shelter in the great underground bunkers were doomed; Doomed to a lonely existence under what was once a proud nation.

A flawed, but proud nation.

Funny how the solutions to some problems seem clear as day once the world has come to an end.

He could remember being tasked with solving what seemed like grand issues: Immigration, Health Care, and Economic Rebuilding. Such issues were pointless now. All rendered unimportant in the face of a biological and nuclear holocaust.

He wondered if those on the East coast had seen the mushroom clouds that had signaled the end of the American dream for so many. The dream he had crushed with his haphazard decision. In hindsight, it was the worst decision he could have possibly made. He had no idea how he had rationalized it.

Raining hellfire on the people he was sworn to serve as the president? Unbelievable. Leaving the survivors behind to seek refuge with the rest of the government? Unforgivable.

The silence that came from his choice was deafening; A sign of how low they had all fallen.

"Mr. President, we have five minutes.", came the voice of the secret serviceman assigned to stand with him on the ground. Why? He didn't know, The dead posed no immediate threat.

He sighed, taking on last look at the ominous mushroom cloud still hanging over the shattered wreck of the nearby city, before stepping onto the helicopter that would take him back to his subterranean prison.

Yes, he would live a lifetime of punishment; Always reliving the lives he brought to an end, the mistakes he made.

And he would pay it, knowing he deserved every moment of the emotional agony.


	4. Flight Over Fight

[A/N]: As the hospital begins to fall to the infected, Doctor Jake Evans attempts to escape.

* * *

Gunshots filled the hallways, making the doctor jump almost every other moment, incapable of adjusting to the sounds of slaughter. Gunshots weren't the only things to be found in the hallways. The smell of cordite filled the air, along with the screams of the dying, causing the doctor to tear up as he grasped an IV stand, trying to orient himself.

_Where is the exit?! _

The sound of automatic gunfire nearby shocked the doctor, who flattened himself against the wall, trying to hide in the doorway to an operating room. He watched as several soldiers in gas masks and toting assault rifles swept by, firing a shot into a slumped body for good measure.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the doctor pushed off the wall again, running towards the emergency stairwell. As he rounded another corner, he covered his mouth to avoid making a scream before turning to retch silently into an abandoned bedpan.

In the next hallway, pure carnage assaulted his eyes.

Blood was splattered on the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. On the floor, body parts and organs littered the ground like macabre confetti so casually left to lay around. Feasting on the bloody remains of what was once his colleagues and friends were several reanimated patients sporting hospital gowns, with most large bite marks on they're various appendages; Most, but not all. Some were among the first to be infected somehow, and instead being one of those who spread the virus.

Immediately deciding he couldn't handle them, the doctor turned and went for the elevator, hoping beyond hope it wasn't being crowded over by others trying to escape. He knew from the news broadcasts that crowds attracted attention from the... The undead as he now could force himself to call them.

Inside, he wanted to think they were sick; To think they were able to be cured.

But he knew better now. He'd seen the heart monitors and watched one reanimate before a bullet to the skull ended it's threat. Such measures had been put in place by the Major in charge quite quickly, but it hadn't been enough.

And now he was forced to try to find a way out of a twelve story hospital in downtown Atlanta in the vain hope of surviving what appeared to be a worldwide pandemic of apocalyptic proportions.

_By god, Mondays suck. _

As the doctor rounded a corner, he felt his morale drop to a previously unreachable low as he saw the empty elevator shaft greeting him, smoke drifting up and out of it, filling the corridor and stinging his eyes.

Silently, Evans crept forward, peering down the shaft as he covered his mouth and nose with his lab coat to try to block the smoke.

_I'm in luck! _

At the bottom of the shaft, Evans could see a small fire raging from the remains of the elevator. However, said fire also lit up the doorway leading to the garage beneath the hospital. Evans was overjoyed at the thought of escape being near.

_I can hotwire a car and be out of here! Thank god for college. _

Evans reached to his left and felt around for the ladder he'd heard the maintenance crews mention. Sure enough, it was there, tucked in the corner. Evans quickly tore a sleeve of his coat and tied it around his nose and mouth before latching onto the ladder and beginning the descent down.

As Evans lowered himself, it felt a if he was descending into hell. The heat from the flames increased and made the ladder hard to hold onto, and the sights he couldn't stop himself from glancing at scarred his mind as he looked out at the floors he passed.

Floor after floor, signs of death and destruction greeted him. On one floor, a squad of soldiers executed a group of his colleagues, paying no attention to the fact they seemed untouched by the infected. On the next, a small girl chewed on the muscle of what appeared to be a dead nurse. On yet another, a fire blocked off a group of survivors from the elevator, and he heard their screams as they met a fiery end. He kept going though, knowing he was of little help to his fellow suffering men.

After what seemed like an eternity, Evans reached the bottom of the shaft and practically fell into the small room separating the hospital from the garage. Luckily, no one inhabited the level, allowing the doctor to gasp for air and curl his burnt fingers in pain without immediate fear of death. After a moment he pushed himself up and moved for the door, pushing against it and waiting for the first breath of air to hit him.

_Wait... What..? _

Looking down, Evans realized the door was locked with a padlock. Almost tearing his hair out in frustration, Evans looked around for something to break it with. He thought fate was smiling on him though, because he spotted a toolbox abandoned in the corner next to a removed ceiling panel and quickly ran over, removing a pair of industrial pliers.

Moving to the door, he noted a strange muffled sound on the other side before beginning to try to twist the lock off the door. After a few minutes he had it weakened enough that one strong push could break it and open the door.

_Alright! Time to get out of here! _

He noted the muffled noise had gotten louder, but chalked it up to the violence outside before he built up his strength and giving a great push, breaking the lock and shoving the door open.

It was only when he stepped out into the unnaturally cold garage that he realized his mistake.

The garage was being used as a morgue; And his attempts to get out had awoken the dead.

He didn't have time to scream before they were on him.


	5. Sometimes Death Is A Little Funny

[A/N]: Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? Ah well, figured I'd post something before I got started on Project Achilles.

Enjoy and please review.

**Important: **Takes place a few days post-abandonment of Atlanta on a barren rooftop.

* * *

When the dead began overrunning the army's fragile hold over Atlanta and started devouring the citizens, Jacob Manstein made two fatal decisions.

First, instead of joining the throngs of panicked people trying to escape via the highway, Jacob gathered his supplies and made it to the top of a nearby corporate skyscraper, the sort where the same people attempting to flee the city wasted their lives in a pointless example to the horrendous monotony of capitalism.

When he reached the top he barricaded the doors and popped flares in the four corners of the building in an attempt to garner the attention of an army helicopter. That was his second mistake. Unfortunately for Jacob, the army was in no shape or mood to evacuate civilians, having been ordered to immediately withdraw, in order to lick their wounds and try to come up with a new. Instead, all he managed to do was attract every zombie in a several block radius to his tower, where the flares made for a delightful sign that a meal was near.

That was three days ago. Now, in the blazing afternoon sun and with the pounding of the dead on the door to the roof, Jacob is leaning against a dead ventilation unit, staring uncomprehendingly at his now-empty bottle of water. Instead of despairing however, Jacob simply looks over to his pile of empty supplies and tosses the bottle towards it, the empty container falling far short and simply rolling to the edge of the roof instead.

_Close enough. _

Jacob glances to his side, his pistol lying next to him, the clip as empty as his stomach, which had long since stopped growling and simply gave off a dull ache, as if his mind acknowledged it wasn't going to get any food and simply numbed the nerves that used to see such little use in the first place.

_So this is what it's like in all those third-world countries in the commercials. _

Jacob chuckled at the thought of an old English man standing next to him in his brand new safari gear, reading out the lines from his script as Jacob sat there, dejected.

Almost as soon as he began laughing at it, he became deathly silent as he looked at the man he could swear simply walked out of the barrier blocking the roof entrance, his parched mouth forming the words he could barely bring forth from his shock at seeing the man he long thought dead.

"Dad..?", he whispered, watching the man approach and sit next to him against the ironically burning hot defunct air conditioning unit.

The man nodded, his weathered hand setting itself on his son's shoulder, mysteriously light.

_It's... It's really him... How..?_

The last time Jacob had seen his father, he had been leaving his mother and him alone at the house, saying he was going to go cash his paycheck, and that a surprise would be coming back with him for the then 7-year old Jacob to see.

He never did come back, and over the years, Jacob watched his mother slowly die a little every day.

He never blamed his father, though. He knew he didn't leave them on purpose. No, Jacob's father was the kind of man who never left a job half-finished, be it lighting job or his son's homeschooling. His father loved to tell him, "A job half-finished isn't worth half a reward.". That often repeated phrase was often heard around evening, when he would take time out to help his son with his math, or read him a story.

Even as he thought of the phrase now, Jacob swore he saw his father mouth the words, before he faded away, like he was picked up by the sands of time.

Jacob blinked feverishly, his brain finally catching up, causing him to realize it was only a hallucination he saw.

_Stupid! Why the hell would he show up here, of all times and places! _

If he wasn't conserving strength, he likely would have smacked himself, as it was, he came to a chilling conclusion.

_Shit. That's a bad sign. _

He had previously come to the conclusion that he was going to die and accepted that, but suddenly, in the unending heat of the sun, he became aware he didn't want to die up there. He didn't want to be found years, perhaps decades from then and known as the guy who almost made it away.

He absently shifted in place, looking down at his legs and experimentally trying to move them. He wasn't remotely surprised when they didn't respond to his commands. Looking to his left, he gauged the distance to the edge of the roof.

_About 10 feet. I can make it. _

Mustering the strength he needed, Jacob turned...

And immediately fell flat on his face, his arms not supporting the sudden shifting of weight as he tried to get into a crawling position.

_Ok. That hurt. Again! _

Pushing himself up, Jacob began the crawl, noting that the pounding on the door had increased, like in response to the groan he had released when he fell. As soon as he reached the edge, he paused, staring down the building's side, becoming abruptly aware of his position about eighty floors above the ground. It occurs to him after a moment that he should probably say something profound in the face of death. Maybe that old reverend living next to him was right. Maybe God did have a plan and he was just meant to die there.

"Well...", he starts, his voice raspy and lips cracked.

He goes no further, however, as he hears the alarming sound of a door being broken open behind him, causing him to, instead of falling headfirst, fall ass-first, smashing into a window washer's platform before continuing his fall to the ground, his last thoughts consisting of a simple:

_Oh shit. _

* * *

[A/N]: Not my best work, I think, but tell me what you think.

Please review.


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